


I Didn’t Just Come Here To Dance

by ninetyfive



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Sex in a toilet, slutty Mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 13:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18779461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninetyfive/pseuds/ninetyfive
Summary: Mark and Howard are casual sex partners, and when Mark attends one of Howard’s DJ gigs, dancing isn’t the only thing he wants to do that night. He wants to shag. Obviously.But he doesn’t just want THAT. Like Howard, Mark secretly wants the two of them to be more than just friends with benefits. He wants them to become boyfriends. Will tonight finally be the right time to take things further?Or: that time Howard and Mark have sex in a bathroom stall in the back of a club because apparently I ship Donowen now?





	I Didn’t Just Come Here To Dance

Howard is really regretting agreeing to this gig. The pay is nice enough and the club is in West London so he’ll be back at home by two, but the crowd is awful. Most people on the first three rows don’t even move. They stare at him like he’s a goldfish in a bowl, just standing there motionless in their bloody Take That T-shirts that they got for eight quid at Primark. 

Part of him gets it. He does. He _is_ famous, after all, and while he’s nowhere near as popular as Gary or Rob he supposes there will always be Take That fans showing up at his gigs just to stare at him. He _gets_ it.

But it doesn’t make it less frustrating. He doesn’t want people to _stare_ ; he wants people to dance! Move! Sing, even. He wants them to get up and throw their arms in the air and appreciate him for the music he plays them; not to be stared at because he happens to be in a boy band.

It’s going to be a long two hours.

The set meanders slowly along, and Howard’s beginning to wonder if he shouldn’t just play the crowd on the dancefloor a bloody Take That song when a vision in white gives him pause.

_Is that . . . ?_

It can’t be.

Howard tries his hardest to spot the white blur again, but it’s hard to see: apart from the first three rows, the rest of the club is pretty much just a black hole, illuminated every now and then with strobe lights that turn everything he sees in front of him into three-second fragments of bodies and smoke. He can vaguely make out a bar and a green EXIT sign, and people dancing behind the row of Take That fans, but that’s about it. The club is as unfamiliar to him as an alien planet, indistinguishable from the club he played at last week.

Once you turn off the lights, every club pretty much looks the same: you have people dancing; strobe lights; plastic cups spilled out all over the floor; disco balls; drunk people making a fool of themselves and the occasional fight kicking off in front of him. Most of the time Howard just focusses on the mixing desk in front of him, so maybe he was imagining things. He can’t possibly have seen _that_ walking into the club.

And yet . . .

Howard tries to scan the crowd in between working his magic on the mixing desk in front of him, a magnificent music-making machine that he knows by heart. He makes the music swell with just a flick of his fingers, and his heart starts thumping in sync with the beat when he spots the vision in white again.

He looks up so hard that his Beats headphones almost fall off his head.

He knew he wasn’t seeing things. He knew it. In the middle of the throng, he spots his very own Mark Owen, dressed in all-white like an angel . . . if an angel were capable of moving his body like a bloody slag.

Mark’s moving his skinny little hips in time with the music. His naked arms contort over his head. His eyes are closed; he’s feeling Howard’s music with every inch of his body, which looks hotter than Howard has ever seen it. Mark looks skinny and lean in a white sleeveless shirt, his tanned arms looking just a bit muscular when the strobe lights brush his body right.

If only he and Mark were actual boyfriends, Howard thinks; that way, he’d be seeing that body all day and all night and not just whenever Mark fancies.

It’s a weirdly arousing sight, seeing Mark Owen dance in what is arguably quite a dark, dirty club, and what’s even stranger is that no-one notices him. Everyone’s so busy either dancing, drinking or staring at Howard doing his thing at the mixing desk that no-one notices the second member of Take That in the club, directing every move _at him_.

Suddenly Mark locks eyes with him, and Howard feels hot and cold all over when Mark flirtatiously curves back his finger, saying _c’mere_. The fans on the front row don’t seem to notice, and if they did they probably wouldn’t care about Mark Owen being here anyway because he has a moustache and long hair now and that makes him uninteresting apparently?

But not to Howard. To Howard, Mark looks sexier than he ever has – which makes it all the more frustrating that he agreed to DJ till one in the morning. As in, one hour from now. He’ll be stuck at his Pioneer mixing desk having to watch Mark doing _that_ with his body for another sixty minutes.

Howard shoots Mark an apologetic look and gestures between himself and the mixing desk, illustrating that he’s stuck. He can see Mark nodding his head to show that he understands, and he continues moving his body on the dancefloor like their entire exchange never even happened.

The lights flash on and off, and Mark Owen disappears from the crowd.

For the remainder of Howard’s set, which involves turning a lot of dials and looking very sexy with his headphones on, Howard almost convinces himself that seeing Mark was a product of his imagination. Mark’s never been to one of his DJ gigs before, and the last time he saw Mark dancing like _that_ was in the nineties, when they’d stay up all night going to after-parties instead of going to bed early like they usually do now.

On the whole, being a member of Take That in 2019 is quite dull apart from all the travelling and concerts. Howard knew they were getting on a bit when Gary got excited when he was given a cold-pressed juice machine for his birthday. 

But then Howard again spots Mark looking at him from afar, arms in the air, his mouth moving along to the lyrics, and he changes his mind. “Dull” is fans giving you reusable Starbucks coffee cups. “Dull” is eating granola bars before a gig instead of living on chocolate oranges during an entire tour. “Dull” is going to bed straight after a gig.

What _isn’t_ dull is watching Mark on the dancefloor, his sweaty little body grinding up against some stranger’s arse, his face screwed up in pleasure.

Just seeing it makes Howard feel an uncomfortable pulsing in his crotch that he’s glad his mixing desk is right in front of. There’s only one reason Mark would ever attend one of his DJ gigs, and it has nothing to do with his music.

***

One in the morning arrives later than Howard would like. He finishes his set with a techno remix of _Relight My Fire_ and leaves the mixing desk with a half-arsed goodbye that he would never get away with on a Take That tour.

Then the fans who spent the past two hours staring at him suddenly spur back into motion like a bunch of wind-up toys, and Howard finds himself signing autographs on the dancefloor. He can see fuck-all what with the club being quite dark inside, and he ends up scribbling large H’s that look more like two lines drawn next to each other. The fans seem pretty happy regardless, and they all file out of the club as soon as a second DJ takes to the stage.

Howard finally spots Mark standing at the bar, dripping in sweat. Mark’s face lights up when he sees Howard approaching, and he wraps his mate into a tight, sweaty hug that makes all the blood rush to Howard’s nether regions.

For already the second time that night, Howard wishes he and Mark were in an actual relationship instead of . . . whatever they’ve got going on now.

‘YOU ALL RIGHT, HOW?’ Mark says. Or rather, shouts. The new DJ has just started his set, and his music is very loud.

‘All the better for seeing you,’ Howard says after they’ve let go of each other.

Mark cups a hand over his ear. ‘WHAT?’

‘I SAID ALL THE BETTER FOR SEEING YOU!’ Howard finds that he has to shout over the music too. Thankfully everyone around him is engaged in shouted conversation too, or else he would feel a bit ridiculous. ‘I THOUGHT THAT SET WOULD NEVER END!’

‘ _WHAT?_ ’ Mark is clearly going deaf.

Howard has to move closer to Mark; inches apart. He can literally feel Mark’s heat radiating off of him, and he has to fight the urge to pull Mark into another wet, sweaty hug. ‘I SAID I THOUGHT THAT SET WOULD NEVER END!’

‘DID YOU NOT ENJOY IT?’

‘I WOULD HAVE ENJOYED IT MORE IF I WAS DOWN ‘ERE WITH YOU!’ Howard looks Mark up and down then, and he feels a hungry itch in his tummy that is definitely going to need scratching when he sees the sweat literally dripping down Mark’s chest and arms.

Mark looks _obscenely_ good. Which shouldn’t come as a surprise, because this is literally how Mark was dressed on their Greatest Hits tour, but bloody hell.  

‘I saw you dancing, by the way,’ Howard adds in a more normal volume, for he doesn’t want to flirt with Mark at the top of his voice. He thinks about seeing Mark grinding up against some stranger’s arse, and he has to fight the urge to flip Mark over against the bar and do the same thing to him.

Conveniently, the stranger has now disappeared. It was probably just Mark’s way of getting Howard hot and bothered, which has worked pretty well to be fair. The only good thing about not being in a serious relationship is that Mark can still get away with shameless flirting with strangers. ‘You looked like you was enjoying yourself.’

‘I was,’ Mark replies. He looks Howard up and down and tucks the unruly locks of his long hair behind his ears. ‘I didn’t just come here to dance, though, if ya know what I mean . . .’

Howard bites his lip. He knows exactly what his mate is saying. Mark didn’t just come here to dance . . . because he came here to be with _him_.

He knew it. Mark’s here to have _sex_. Obviously. He’s wearing a white sleeveless shirt that shows off his arms, for God’s sake.

The first time they did anything like it – having sex, that is – Mark felt so guilty afterwards that he literally disappeared during the night. He’d walked a pretty short walk of shame, for he was staying in the room at the other side of the corridor. It was quite embarrassing for everyone involved, and he’d even gone through the effort of writing Howard a long, wordy note about how the previous night had been a massive mistake and that it’d never happen again. Mark just wanted to be friends. Nothing more.

At the time, Howard thought it was a mistake too. It must’ve been. After all, the sex was bloody messy at best: they’d gotten a bit lonely and horny during some European tour and Mark knocked on Howard’s door at the hotel one night and one thing led to another.

That is, a quick, horny snog led to Howard pinning Mark down on the bed. That sort of sex.

It was fucking good, though. “Best sex you’ve ever had” good.

Mark stopped feeling like his first time with Howard had been a big mistake after about a week, and their one-night-stand blossomed into the two of them being casual sex partners. You know, that thing adults sometimes do when they have sex on the regular but aren’t in an actual relationship.

They exclusively have sex on tour. Mark will sneak through the hotel in the middle of the night and meet up at Howard’s, and they’ll spend all night having sex depending on whether they have somewhere to be the day after. And every morning at precisely six o’clock, even before Gary wakes up to run a marathon or whatever it is he does to keep fit these days, Mark will sneak back to his own room and stay there until it’s time to have breakfast. He’ll then saunter down to the dining hall of the hotel, alone, and join his mates for baked beans and eggs.

Weirdly, Gary still hasn’t got a clue his mates have got something going on.

‘I don’t understand how you can look so happy at eight in the morning,’ Gary once remarked when he watched Mark entering the dining hall of a Manchester hotel with a million-watt post-sex grin on his face. ‘I’ve been up since six, and I _still_ feel tired.’

‘You’ve just been on a walk through the estate, though, haven’t you?’ Mark retorted as he started plating up a bunch of beans and sausages and other things that British people eat in the morning. ‘No wonder you’re tired.’

Gary looked up from his own plate, eyebrows askew. ‘How do you know I’ve just been on a walk? I thought you always slept in till half seven.’

Mark turned very red at that. ‘I – I didn’t. I mean, I do. You’re right, I usually sleep in till half seven. But, you see, I . . . I was very hungry this morning, so I decided to go down to have breakfast already.’ He waved a nervous hand at his plate. ‘This is my second serving.’

Howard then remarked that Mark was very fond of the hotel’s _sausages_ , and Mark started coughing so loudly that James the security guy nearly offered to have him taken to A&E.

Point is, Howard and Mark exclusively have sex at hotels. (And dressing room, sometimes.) (Also, recording booths. But that was just a one-off because Mark had accidentally pressed the RECORD button and recorded  himself and Howard fucking. It was mortifying.) They’ve never shagged at their respective apartments, and they probably never will; taking the sex to their own homes would make it far too real.

Most of the time they don’t even bother cleaning themselves up afterwards.

Mark knows that what they’re doing is terribly wrong, of course. It shouldn’t even _work_ really, the two of them; Howard’s a bit quiet during sex whilst Mark could moan your bloody ears off, and kissing Howard can be pretty difficult when _he’s_ so tall and Mark’s not so tall at all. After sex, Howard prefers to get some shut-eye whereas Mark usually spends the next fifteen or twenty minutes rambling on about whatever is on his mind at the moment, which is usually something to do with the band. (Mark came up with the idea of the Greatest Hits stage after sex. Make of that what you will.) It shouldn’t work – and yet it does. 

But in spite of the two of them obviously clicking, Howard and Mark have never had the idea that what they are doing is part of some sort of relationship. They just _fuck_. That’s all. Mark guesses the right term would be “friends with benefits”; he would never call Howard his boyfriend, and Howard would never call Mark his.

And yet Mark’s here, especially for Howard, looking like a fucking work of art.

It wasn’t even really Mark’s intention to come here, to be honest. He quite fancied going to bed early tonight, and the last time Mark went clubbing was ten years ago, maybe even more. The second the thought of going to see Howard crossed his mind, he flicked it away with a wave of his hand.

What would he even do at a club, anyway? Dance? Stare at Howard like an idiot? He obviously wouldn’t drink; he knows himself better than that. Going here would be a complete waste of time.

But then Mark thought about seeing Howard behind his mixing desk, doing oh so lovely things with his hands and fingers, and something inside of him changed his mind.

For a second, Mark even wondered if seeing Howard DJing would make him feel like the two of them are together properly. You know, as lovers. As partners. Not that Mark would ever admit that he’d like Howard to be that, a lover, but watching one of Howard’s DJ gigs could be the closest thing to ever feeling like they’ve got a functioning relationship. It’d be like visiting your boyfriend at work, except Howard isn’t his boyfriend.

And he knows that doesn’t explain why he’s wearing no underpants and a sleeveless shirt that shows off his arms, but still. Deep down, Mark wouldn’t mind the two of them being _more_.

If only he knew how to say it. He and Howard are so used to “just” shagging that he has no idea how to say that he wants to be more than just friends with benefits. Not that their shags are particularly bad, because they’re not, but wouldn’t it be nice if they actually settled down for once?

Maybe. Mark doesn’t even know what settling down with Howard would mean, really. Regular dates, perhaps? Moving in? Fighting over the remote control in the evening? Waking up together every morning, not having to worry about Gary or one of the tour crew finding out because they’ve already told everyone they’re an item? He hasn’t got a clue.

And truth be told, it’s quite hard to think when you have Howard Donald looking at you like he wants to bend you over.

‘You wanna go somewhere a bit private, Markie?’

These days, a sentence like that is all it takes. Just one word, and Mark will know instantly what Howard wants. On some days, Howard doesn’t even have to say anything: he’ll look at Mark in a certain way during dinner, and he’ll _know_. Simple things like a curt nod in a corridor or a little wink at the end of a _Rule The World_ have become shorthand for something else; something more. He’ll make a certain gesture at Mark that means nothing to Gary or the rest of the crew, and Mark will immediately know that Howard fancies a shag that night.

It seems fair that Howard does most of the initiating, because if Mark were to do it he’d turn it into one big monologue.

That’s not to say Mark always says yes. He still says no pretty regularly, as does Howard. There are days when a concert is so emotionally and physically draining that you don’t really fancy staying up till one in the morning to have a shag. Not to mention the fact that Gary sometimes sleeps next door, and that some hotel walls are very thin, and, well, Mark is loud. Very. Loud. There are just some things that you don’t ever want your bandmates to hear.

But in a club, it’s almost impossible to be overheard.

Mark glances at a door in the back of the club, hidden behind a sea of dancing men and women. It’s the door to the men’s restrooms, not the best place to get dirty but at least it’s something.

‘Restrooms?’ he suggests.

Howard nods. ‘Restrooms.’

Mark takes Howard by the hand through the crowd.

The moment his fingers entwine with Howard’s, he feels reassuringly safe and comfortable. Within seconds, microseconds, the crowd disappears and the music that the new DJ is playing becomes mere background music. He’s no longer inside a club with a hundred, maybe two hundred other people, but inside a world where it’s just him and Howard, about to do something that makes the planet itself stop spinning, like a spinning top slowing to a halt.

The first few minutes are always the most exciting, for they usually determine whether they’ll get caught. Just like there’s always a risk of getting caught in a hotel or dressing room, there’s an even bigger risk getting caught in a club. There are people everywhere. Some Take That fans have lingered near the bar, drinking themselves silly.

A lady with a Take That T-shirt catches Mark’s eye in the throng, and for a second he fears that they’ve been spotted. The lady would only have to look down to see Mark’s hand grasping Howard’s, and she’d _know_. The entire _world_ would know.

But then the new DJ breaks out into a new song, and Mark can push his way through the crowd before the lady’s brain can catch up with what she saw. She’ll think she was merely imagining it, for the sweet, innocent little Mark Owen _she_ knows would never drag Howard by the hand through a club. She probably also still thinks Mark Owen has never had sex with anyone, ever.

They reach the restrooms, and the lads enter a second, dirtier world. Here, the music sounds a little different – like it’s been put through a filter. It’s still deafeningly loud, though, which is just as well because Mark’s heart is beating so hard he’s pretty sure you could hear it if they were somewhere a bit quieter.

The three available stalls are all covered in lewd messages and graffiti. It smells of shit and piss, and there’s toilet paper all over the floor. A big yellow puddle of liquid covers the floor in front of the first stall, and Mark desperately hopes it’s beer and not piss or worse. While Mark can’t spot anyone, two of the available stalls are closed, meaning people are there.

They have to be careful.

Howard puts his finger to his lips and pulls Mark quickly towards the stall in the middle, the only stall that isn’t occupied. As they go, Mark catches a brief glimpse of himself and Howard in the dirty bathroom mirror.

Their reflections look _nothing_ like popstars. They look . . . different. Mark can see that his cheeks have flushed red, and Howard looks deliciously tall and imposing next to him.

But there’s more. In the mirror, the two of them look like lovers. _Actual_ lovers, holding hands; cheeks red. It’s what Mark has always wanted him and Howard to look like, and it’s a massive turn-on.

He stops to give Howard a horny kiss in the middle of the public restrooms.

‘Can’t wait to be fucked by you, How. Can’t wait to have you inside,’ Mark mumbles hotly and incoherently against Howard’s lips, and they kiss passionately until the sound of a door creaking open forces them to pull apart.

They can escape into the empty stall in the middle just in time. The moment Mark locks the door behind him, someone walks into the restrooms to wash his hands.

A quick glance confirms that the stall they’ve chosen isn’t the cleanest place they’ve ever been in. It smells of piss and shit. The floor is covered in toilet paper, and there are strange stains on the walls that would suggest Mark and Howard aren’t the first ones to have come in here. It’s better not to dwell on it.

Besides – Mark would shag Howard anywhere. Being in here hasn’t remotely stopped him from feeling horny as fuck.

The music coming from the dancefloor is enough to cover Howard’s surprised little gasp when Mark stands on tiptoe to kiss him again. It’s a rougher kiss than the first one, and Howard responds to it by pushing Mark against the graffitied wall of their stall. It’s bloody small: there’s barely enough space for two people to stand, and a small gap between the underside of the door and the floor shows the soles of their sneakers. Just one look at that gap, and people will know there are two people in there.

The thought only turns Mark on more.

He _wants_ people to know he’s in here, about to be royally fucked by Howard Donald from Take That, and so he moans and gasps like a slag through every kiss Howard gives him. The only thing his mate can do is kiss Mark harder, applying enough force on his mouth to stop him from making those pathetic little noises that both piss Howard off and turn him on.

Eventually Howard stops caring about the other people in the restroom hearing them, and he moves his mouth to the places where he knows Mark is most sensitive, like his ear and the spot between his neck and shoulder. He even lifts up Mark’s arms to kiss his armpits, which is rewarded with the sort of moan only porn stars make.

To this day Howard still doesn’t know whether or not Mark puts it on for show.

It doesn’t take long until they’re both sporting very obvious semis. By now, so many people have come and gone inside the restrooms that they’ve lost track. Even the DJ that replaced Howard has gone; he’s been replaced by a DJ who plays techno by the sounds of it, and his music is so loud that Mark can feel the music reverberated in the door of the bathroom stall. Which is just as well, because Mark isn’t planning on being quiet.   

They start using their hands as well as their mouths. Different sounds echo all around them as they kiss: the music from the dancefloor, a stall door being slammed shut, someone turning on the hand dryer on the wall.

They move their hands lower. And lower. Lower still until they reach the zips of each other’s trousers.

For a moment, Howard’s hands hover nervously above the hem of Mark’s trousers. They’ve more or less agreed to keep their shirts on; mainly because the thought of fucking Mark in his white vest is a tremendous turn-on, but also because Howard would probably dislocate his shoulder if he tried taking his own shirt off.

This stall really _is_ quite small, Howard thinks quietly to himself, and for only the millionth time that night he wishes he and Mark would just bloody settle down instead of having to shag in secret in places like this.

Not that he’s complaining, but still. He’s getting on a bit, and he’s not sure how much longer his body will be able to survive having to contort into awkward angles because Mark refuses to go steady with him.

Again, he’s not complaining. Fucking Mark Owen against a door isn’t something he’d ever be doing aged fifty-something, and he’s bloody loving it.

They could have chosen a bigger toilet, though.

‘You still up for this, Mark?’

Howard knows the answer already, but he still needs to ask. This is by far the least romantic place they’ve ever shagged in so far, and he wouldn’t blame Mark said he wanted to go to a hotel or something.

But judging by the way Mark kisses him next, with the tips of his fingers already hooked inside the hem of Howard’s trousers, Mark wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here. Here, with Howard.

‘ _Yes_.’ Mark pecks Howard gently on the lips. A soft kiss. So _warm_ , compared to what they’re about to do next.

Mark’s next words are barely audible over the cacophony of different beats from the dancefloor, thumping so loudly that he can feel it in his chest.

Or maybe that’s just his heart hammering away at the thought of having Howard inside of him again.

‘I still want it, How. Please. I want you to fuck me so badly.’

Mark plants a rough, itchy kiss on Howard’s mouth, and every doubt Howard had about fucking Mark in a toilet is wiped from his mind.

He quickly helps Mark take off his trousers. It turns out Mark has gone commando, and seeing Mark’s long prick bouncing up makes Howard lick his lips. He shakes his head. ‘I still can’t believe you was hiding _that_ the entire time.’

‘ _You’re_ one to talk, Mr Donald,’ Mark whispers, and he briefly cups Howard’s big, hard cock through the material of his trousers. ‘You know I couldn’t walk for days after we first had sex . . .’

Their lips meet again, and Mark forgets what he was doing when he feels Howard reaching out for his own cock and rubbing it slowly up and down. ‘ _Oh my God_ , that’s it, Howard . . . oh my God . . . oh fuck . . .’

Mark’s reaction is instantaneous: after just two seconds, Mark closes his eyes and tilts back his head as Howard pumps his fist up and down his cock. The person in the stall next to them has gone suspiciously quiet as Mark moans softly and pornographically throughout every touch Howard puts him through.

As ever, Mark looks gorgeous as he’s being jerked off: chin tilted, eyes closed, lips parted into a big “O”. To be fair, it’s basically how Mark looks when he’s on stage half of the time. But it’s still bloody hot, and Howard loves that he can have that effect on Mark. In a fairer world, he’d be able to see that sight every day, in his own home – not just in hotels and restrooms.

‘You’re so fucking sexy,’ Howard purrs, and his mouth meets Mark’s for a rough kiss whilst he continues to jerk Mark off at the same time. ‘ _Jesus_.’

In between being kissed and touched so expertly, Mark still has the state of mind to help Howard out of his trousers. He unbuckles Howard’s belt with shaking hands and pulls down his trousers with a bit of an effort. His boxers are the next to go, revealing Howard’s ridiculously thick cock. They land in a puddle around Howard’s ankles.

‘ _My turn_ ,’ Mark rasps against Howard’s lips, hot and needy, and a second later he sinks on his knees on the floor to take Howard’s semi into his mouth.

The first time Mark give him head, Howard couldn’t quite believe what was happening. Seeing his cock disappearing into Mark’s tight, warm mouth . . . it was so hot, so bloody wrong. He never thought his innocent little Markie was capable of doing something so filthy, and yet there Mark was, bobbing his head up and down his prick on the floor of a five-star hotel room.

And now here they are again, except this time Mark’s knees touch the cold tiles of a dirty bathroom stall.

Unsurprisingly, Mark’s good. Obscenely good. His mouth is warm and tight. His tongue touches sensitive little places Howard didn’t even know he _had_ whilst his left hand plays with his own prick. And his eyes – Jesus, Mark, those _eyes_. Mark locks eyes with Howard during everything he does, just staring up with those gorgeous eyes of his until Howard feels like he might drown in them.

It also helps that Mark’s moustache makes everything a billion times better.

Howard wasn’t that sure about Mark’s “new look” at first, but that was before he felt Mark’s moustache rubbing up against the inside of his thigh during sex. And as for Mark’s long hair – it’s perfect for tugging and grabbing a handful, and Howard is the only guy in the world who gets to do it.

As far as he knows, anyway. Howard’s never really asked whether Mark has shagged guys before him, and he’s not sure if he wants to. Talking about girls is easy, but talking about boys . . . they never do that, because they’ve never had to. Howard didn’t even realise he liked men in _that_ way until recently, and Mark . . . Mark never mentioned fancying boys either, unless you count him constantly looking at Rob like an obsessed puppy after he came back to the band for _Progress_. But other than that, what he and Mark are doing is something only _they_ do – something reserved only for _them_. . . which makes it all the more frustrating that they can’t make it official by going steady already.

It’d certainly make the next part a bit more romantic.

‘There, you’re all ready for me now.’ Mark gives Howard’s now-hard prick one more kiss, just for good luck, and tears open the wrapper of a condom that he . . . must have been hiding in his trousers? Howard didn’t spot the condom before. Same with the mini bottle of lube that has suddenly appeared next to Mark’s knees on the floor. It’s better not to question these things.

Mark slowly rolls the condom down Howard’s hard prick and covers it in lube. He hands Howard the bottle and gets a little unsteadily on his feet, for he’s just spent the past ten minutes sat on his knees.

He whispers his next words, basically purring them into Howard’s ear. ‘You take care of the rest now, Mr Donald.’ And he turns around on the spot.

The first time Howard and Mark fucked, it took quite some getting used to, to say the least. Mark’s always considered himself to be a pretty big guy (and he is), but Howard . . . Howard is something else. It took them tons of lube and plenty of foreplay to make Mark feel even remotely comfortable, which was actually nigh on impossible given that they were quite nervous when they first shagged. It was a mess. A good mess, though.

Mark’s more used to Howard now. He turns towards the door, arse facing his mate, and places his hands on the stall door to steady himself. He lets out a soft groan when he feels Howard kicking his feet, forcing his legs further apart for better access. He can vaguely make out the sound of Howard unscrewing the bottle of lube and a toilet being flushed next to them.

Unsurprisingly, the presence of other people doesn’t stop Mark from talking dirty. Quite the opposite, in fact.

‘I bet this isn’t how you thought you’d be spending tonight,’ Mark says, deliberately at the top of his voice, as Howard proceeds to slather his fingers in lube. ‘You must have been so surprised to see me, Howard. _So_ surprised.’

Mark mentioning Howard’s name on the top of his voice is not a slip of the tongue. He _wants_ people to know he and Howard are an item, which, of course, they’re not. They’re just friends with benefits.

At least, that’s what he’s been telling himself. What he’s been telling himself and what he _wants_ the two of them to be are two entirely different things.

‘I bet you love it, though, don’t ya?’ Mark goes on, rambling like an aroused madman so he won’t have to hear the more romantic thoughts getting more and more dominant in his head. ‘Getting to fuck me with your big prick . . . I know how turned on you get when we fuck in public . . . Remember the last time we did it? You came so quickly that night, didn’t you? Filled me mouth right up . . .’

The only response Mark gets is Howard sticking two fingers into his hole. Howard’s never been that talkative, bless him.

Mark braces himself to be finger-fucked quickly and roughly in time with the music, but Howard is surprisingly slow. He pushes in and out so deliberately slowly that Mark has to do most of the work himself, grinding himself against Howard's lube-slicked fingers.

Then Howard adds a third finger, and things become quicker. Rougher. Mark can barely stay upright as Howard finger-fucks him deeply and thoroughly, his left hand painfully digging half-moons into Mark’s hips with his short nails. The only remotely soft thing about it all is Howard placing kisses on the back of his head, whispering unnecessary sweet-nothings that mean nothing to Mark because all he can think about is Howard fucking him for real with his prick.

‘I need the real thing, How,’ Mark rasps, eyes squeezed shut, his forehead pressed against the stall door. He places his left hand on Howard’s gripping his hips, and for a moment he loses himself in the intimacy of the moment; Howard touching his hip . . . Howard’s soft lips placing kisses all over the back of his head; the sweet-nothings he can barely make out over the cacophony of noises from the dancefloor . . . for a moment it’s as if they’re actual lovers and not just two people fucking for the sake of it.

Mark wishes they were, anyway. ‘Need your prick inside. Please.’

Mark’s beginning to sound a bit like Howard accidentally playing a broken record during one of DJ gigs, but his mate does as he’s told. Mark lets out a disappointed but relieved gasp when Howard’s wet fingers slip out of him, and he prepares himself for _that_ feeling. 

It’s not something Mark thinks he’ll ever get used to, and he doesn’t think he wants to. Howard pushing his prick inside . . . feeling his hole being filled up and stretched . . . the pain and then the pleasure . . . Howard kissing the spots where he is most sensitive throughout . . . Howard knowing exactly when to speed up and slow down again, keeping Mark guessing until he no longer knows what’s up next . . . it makes Howard the best shag he’s ever had, hands down, and tonight is no different.

‘You sure you still want this, Mark? You know you can still say no if you think you can’t _handle_ me,’ Howard whispers, both of his hands now digging into Mark’s hips, his crotch pushed up at an angle so that Mark can feel his big prick throbbing against his arse. More men have entered the restrooms, and they have to be quiet.

Well, as quiet as Mark Owen can be before he’s about to have sex, anyway. Howard knows Mark isn’t going to come quietly.

‘N-not a chance,’ Mark whispers, his voice sounding more nervous than he’d like, and he wriggles his arse against Howard’s hard prick. ‘C-cos I really didn’t come for your music, you know. I’m surprised you even lasted even that long at your mixing desk . . . I bet you had a hard-on just seeing me dance with that other guy, didn’t you?’

Howard chuckles. Mark’s got that right, but he isn’t going to admit it. ‘ _Nah._ You wasn’t _that_ good. You looked like a bloody slut, though. Just the way I like it . . .’

Howard slowly pushes in then, and Mark’s body goes stiff with pain.

It takes Howard a while to fill Mark up completely, and Mark has to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out loud. Howard even goes so far as covering Mark’s mouth with his hand, which . . . actually only makes Mark whimper and moan more.

Then Howard pushes the rest of his body against Mark’s clothed back, kissing the back of his head and his right ear where he’s most sensitive, and Mark feels warmth rushing up his cheeks. A prickle of pleasure tickles his tummy, deep inside. He lets out a relieved gasp when he feels Howard’s prick pushing deeper inside and crossing the threshold between pain and pleasure, and he finally relaxes.

‘Comfy, Mark?’

Mark nods a few times, his forehead still touching the stall door, and Howard takes that as his cue to start moving more steadily. Removing his hand from Mark’s mouth, he pushes in and out in time with the music whilst more people come and go in the stalls around them.

He pushes up Mark’s white shirt so he can have a look at his tanned back, all sweaty and arched and _perfect_. He once had the same view when Mark rode him, reverse cowboy style (donning an actual cowboy hat from the Greatest Hits Tour for _some_ reason), and he’s been weirdly attracted to that part of Mark’s body since. 

Unsurprisingly, Mark’s loud. Porn star loud. He moans and gasps and whimpers throughout every wave of pleasure Howard’s prick puts him through, and Howard lets him do it. He _likes_ it. It turns him on. He makes sure each touch or stroke is better than the last until he’s turned Mark into a sweating, moaning, trembling mess and the only thing keeping Mark from tumbling is being sandwiched between Howard and the door.

Embarrassingly, Howard doesn’t last long. A wave of pleasure ripples up his body, and his movements quickly become less constant; shaky. He starts trembling when he tries to thrust up at an angle, making Mark tremble too.

Next to them, he can hear a toilet being flushed. Someone else is washing their hands. A door is creaking open. Footsteps herald the arrival of even more people; two or three men, waiting to take a piss. The DJ is continuing to make people move on the dancefloor, all oblivious to what is happening in here, in the restrooms.

‘Mark . . .’ He isn’t a loud guy usually, but even Howard now has to bite his lip to stop himself from crying out loud. He stifles a groan when he feels Mark tightening around his hard prick. ‘I’m gonna come. Oh Jesus, Mark.’

‘Do it,’ Mark says, though it’s little more than an exhale. His own prick, neglected, hard, rubs uncomfortably against the stall door. He’s close too; pre-cum is dribbling down his cock against the surface of the door. Just one touch – just one sweet stroke of Howard’s cock against his insides – and he’ll come. Maybe even spontaneously. Whichever way, the people in the restrooms will be sure to hear of it. ‘Come on me, How. Please. Oh my God . . .’

Mark moans then, loudly and pornographically, right when someone slams the door of the stall next to them shut, and it’s all Howard needs.

Howard can pull out and take off the condom just on time. Using his fist, he comes easily and hotly all over Mark’s back, raining cum over Mark’s previously pristine white vest. More of the stuff ends up on Mark’s pert arse, which looks so bloody _wrong_ that Howard lets out a loud curse.

The cum trickling down the curve of Mark’s arse . . . Mark’s back glistening in sweat . . . the half-moons in Mark’s skin . . . _he_ did that. _He_ did. They did all of that, together, and they’re not even really lovers. They’re just two people who get together to fuck every now and then. They’re just mates. Friends with benefits.

 _What a fucking shame,_ Howard thinks, and it’s in that moment that he desperately, suddenly wishes they were lovers after all.

‘Jesus, Mark, that was _amazing_. _You’re_ amazing.’

Howard can barely stay upright, his orgasm was so good. He curves his arm around Mark’s tummy to finish Mark off, but Mark’s cock has already done the job for him: Mark has come quite spontaneously against the door, a trickle of semen dribbling down his prick. Howard gives it a good rub anyway, making Mark moan quietly as he leans back into Howard’s tight embrace.

He always liked cuddling Howard best.

‘You’re so good to me, Howard,’ Mark whispers, so quietly that only Howard can hear it. He doesn’t mind it when people hear him moan, but telling Howard something like _that . . ._ something like that requires softness. ‘I _love_ you.’

It takes Mark’s brain a while to catch up with his mistake, and when he does he turns quite red. He’s just told Howard he loves him!

He has to talk his way out of it. ‘I – I loved being f-fucked by you, I mean. I loved fucking you. You’re the best fuck I’ve ever had, you know. Yeah. Especially the b-bit when you . . . you know. I loved that. So much.’

Howard chuckles as he kisses the back of Mark’s head, a warm fondness blooming in his tummy that has nothing to do with the fact that he’s just had this amazing orgasm. _I love you too_ , he thinks. ‘Me too, Mark.’

Mark turns around on the spot then, and they kiss and cuddle for as long as it takes them to stop trembling.

It’s not a romantic place to cuddle in at all, and yet for a microsecond Howard couldn’t feel more like he and Mark are lovers, not just friends with benefits.

He hadn’t ever considered taking his relationship with Mark to another level because he’d be too shit scared to bring it up anyway, but he wants nothing else now. He wants _this_ , cuddling Mark and kissing him, all day. Every day. Everywhere. Not just in hotels and in the backs of clubs.

‘Do you wanna go home with me, Mark?’ The words leave Howard’s mouth before his own brain can really process them, and he bites his lip.

Mark initially thinks he must have misheard, for he and Howard shag strictly at hotels and places like this. They’ve _talked_ about this. They can’t be more than friends with benefits, ever, and taking things home would only make things impossibly more complicated.

And yet . . . and yet. Howard would never bring up something quite so serious unless he really meant it.

‘Are you serious, How?’

‘Yes. I wanna take you home with me.’ Howard has said all this quite impulsively, but he actually finds that he means it.

He wants to take Mark home with him. Not just because Mark is stood in front of him looking like a fucking snack, but because his heart felt like it would burst when Mark accidentally told him he loves him just now.

‘I think we should settle down, Mark. Cos one of these days I’m gonna die of old age, and I don’t wanna die _single_. Especially not when I could’ve been in a relationship with _you_ the entire time.’

Howard smiles at Mark then, warmly and nervously. Quite fittingly, the DJ has started playing a softer song; one of those romantic songs they play to get people to dance together. ‘What do you say, Mark?’

‘ _Oh_ , _How_.’ Mark gets the biggest ever smile on his face and wraps his mate in a sweaty, sticky hug that almost sends the blood rushing back to Howard’s groin, for they still haven’t bothered to get dressed. ‘I’d love that. So much.

‘Not that tonight wasn’t amazing,’ Mark adds, his face one big Cheshire grin, ‘cos it was, you know, very much, but I’ve sort of been thinking about asking you to go steady with me for ages. I’m so glad you brought it up. I’d love it.’

Howard blinks. ‘Is that a yes?’

‘Yes! Yes, I’d like to go home with you.’ And Mark wraps Howard into another big hug.

They cuddle some more, and one thing quickly leads to another, with “one thing” being sex and the “other” being the start of something. A relationship. Maybe more. Quite suddenly, the boys find themselves helping each other get dressed for the first time since Howard first pinned Mark to a bed in a five-star hotel.

In spite of Mark’s shirt being covered in stains, knees red, they’ve managed to find something quite beautiful – all because Mark decided he didn’t just want to dance.

They cautiously slip out of the restrooms one by one when no-one is watching, and they head back into the throng of the crowd on the dancefloor, quite unseen, but otherwise radiating.

Perhaps they were boyfriends all along?


End file.
